


Cuckoo

by TwinEnigma



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Crossover, Doctor Who References, Gen, Post-Time War, Prompt Fill, Survivor Guilt, Time Lord Angst, Young Justice Anon Meme
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-04 23:09:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 16,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwinEnigma/pseuds/TwinEnigma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some birds are known to camouflage themselves among the young of another species.  Time Lords are very similar in this respect, as Robin learns.  Doctor Who crossover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - 52 years later

Central City  
December 24, 8:00 PM

The house he stands in front of is a quaint two-level affair with a front yard that looks both played in frequently and well-tended. The front door is a bright, cheery fire-engine red and has one of those old-fashioned polished brass knockers; it’s shined to a high finish and looks almost gold in the lamplight. The windows are decorated and, through them, he can make out a decorated tree and blinking lights.

Robin isn’t sure if he should be here. 

Wally is his best friend, an honor that he has never bestowed lightly, and yet, it still feels awkward to be here. In some ways, it’s because a part of him still blames Wally for what happened all those years ago. Even though he knows it’s unfair of him and feels guilty for even thinking it, there’s still this ugly little part of him which he still calls little, normal human Dick Grayson that believes if Wally had never asked, then all this would have never happened and he could have been happy as a human. He could have lived the rest of a natural human life, never knowing the true scope of the tragedy he’d survived, and that would have been so much easier than this existence he now endures.

But Robin knows the truth: there is no way Wally could have known that asking such a simple, stupid question would change everything forever. There is no way he could have possibly anticipated that his best friend was really not human when even Dick himself hadn’t known until it was too late. The complex disguise technology Robin’s people used was designed to be functionally flawless even to its own users. How could he possibly blame Wally for failing to see through it?

Though he’d like to pretend that it’s just the guilt gnawing at him that keeps him at a distance, the other reason for his distance is far more selfish.

His eyes, a glacial blue, track the figure of a white-haired old man in a mustard-yellow sweater on the other side of the window.

Robin freezes in place, his hand halted only a hair’s breadth from the door, and looks away. Had it really been so long already?

He drops his hand, taking a step back. He shouldn’t have come. It isn’t fair to Wally for him to show up like this, much less to himself. At least if he’d never come here, he would still be able to _pretend._

But it’s too late: the door opens with a soft click, revealing the old man in the sweater. At first, it seems like he has no idea who Robin is, a fact for which he is secretly, guiltily grateful, but then the old man smiles warmly and says, “Hello, Rob.”

And though seeing him this old aches, he finds himself answering: “Hello, Wally.”

* * *

They sit now in Wally’s study, opposite each other. A tray of cookies and two steaming mugs of hot chocolate sit on the coffee table separating them. Silence stretches between them like a chasm, bearing down with all the weight of guilt and years long gone.

Robin tries not to squirm in his seat under the pressure. 

Wally, on the other hand, looks perfectly at peace, even comfortable.

“It’s been a long time,” Wally says, at last.

Robin reaches forward and picks up one of the mugs of cocoa and then nods, slowly. “It certainly has.”

Forty-seven years, nine days, fifteen hours, twenty-two minutes and forty-three seconds, but who’s counting?

“What are you going by these days? Last I recall, it was,” Wally pauses, recalling, “Damian – Damian Wayne, wasn’t it?”

Robin gives a light confirming hum as he sips his cocoa. He hasn’t used the identity since he buried it in that empty box next to his other discarded lives. It had been one of the longer lasting ones, too, and he’d had a special affection for that particular face. Lowering the mug, he licks his lips and gives the answer his old friend has been waiting for: “It’s McGinnis now.”

Wally nods absently, mulling it over a bit. “McGinnis, huh? It suits you.”

There’s no way that Wally hasn’t heard the name. As fringe of polite society as the Wayne family had become, they’d tracked the scandal of succession through the net for weeks. Still, Robin appreciates this little charade of ignorance on the part of his friend. It’s just such a perfectly Wally thing to do and, for a moment, it is like no time has passed at all.

“So, how are you, Rob? How’ve you been?” Wally asks.

“I’m fine, really. I keep busy.”

It’s not a lie, not really, but it’s not quite the truth either. If anything, Robin’s not fine and just being here is only another solid reminder of how not fine he is. He sips the cocoa hurriedly and clears his throat. “So how’s Arte-?”

“Linda,” Wally interrupts mildly.

Robin shrugs. She can hide behind a new identity and dye her hair all she likes: to him, she will always be Artemis. And he’s the last person in the universe who would judge her for it, too, with the way he sheds faces.

“She’s fine - can still drop a man at ten yards with a teacup,” Wally adds, “Not that we do much of that sort of thing anymore.”

The _not since we retired_ remains unsaid – he hasn’t been Kid Flash, much less The Flash, for a long, long time.

“And Bruce, how is he?” Wally’s gaze doesn’t seem to shift, even when he asks, and there’s something so eerie and knowing about it.

Robin shrugs, stirring the cocoa, and rolls his eyes as he says: “Well, you know him... Too stubborn to die.”

Wally shakes his head in amusement, trying to hide a smile, even though it was an old joke when their Young Justice team was first created.

“Look at you, Rob,” Wally says suddenly, “I wish you’d have come by sooner. We’ve all missed you. I’ve missed you. And even M’gann and Conner stop by every once in a blue moon.”

The guilt gnaws hungrily at Robin and he winces, shrinking back into the cushions. He can’t tell him the main reason he’d stopped visiting. How could he? How does one tell their best friend that they can’t bear to see them grow old and die, while they carry on through a life that will span millennia? How can he possibly explain that burden?

He doesn’t want to hurt Wally.

So, instead, he avoids the subject entirely and says, “You know how Gotham is. Can’t leave it alone for a minute without some nut in a costume causing trouble.”

“Rob,” Wally says with one of those weary sighs only a parent can manage. “Stop it. You know what I meant.”

Robin shakes his head as he starts to stand and quickly and shakily puts down the mug. Cocoa sloshes onto the table. “I have to go. I’m sorry.”

“I know you’re scared of losing us,” Wally states bluntly, freezing Robin in his tracks. The former speedster levels him a very serious glare and continues, “I know it’s not easy for you to watch as we get old.”

“It’s the burden of a Time Lord,” Robin says mechanically, trying to dry swallow the lump of emotions and tangled words caught in his throat. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Robin, my twins had to be raised in a time bubble or they’d have died of old age before their eleventh birthday,” Wally says flatly. “Remember?”

The color drains from Robin’s face. He doesn’t even feel his legs wobble and collapse under him until he’s sinking into the chair’s cushions.

Wally gets up, circles round the table and kneels down, but Robin doesn’t look up at him until he feels the warm hand on his shoulder and sees his best friend smiling at him. “If I learned one thing from that mess, it’s that we should enjoy every moment we have. And _you_ , Mister high and mighty Time Lord, seem to need someone to remind you of that.”

Robin snorts, a small wavering smile finding its way onto his lips.

“Now, come on, we’ve got a place set for you at the table,” Wally says, standing. 

“Wally,” Robin hesitates, looking up at him, “You… set a place for me?”

Wally laughs easily. “Of course! We do it every year for you and Bruce, on the off chance you two decide to stop moping, come out of that cave and have a civilized Christmas dinner for once.”

There’s no name for the feeling that wells up in his chest, but it’s so wonderful and painful that he’s almost strangled with it and his eyes sting.

“Earth to Rob,” Wally says, bopping him lightly on the head. “Hurry up or there’ll be nothing left for us by the time we get there. The grandkids are voracious. I’m beginning to suspect they’re part velociraptor.”

Robin starts a little, blinks away the tears, and nods, standing. “Thanks, Wally. I needed that.”

“What are best friends for?” the retired speedster asks, smiling, and opens the door to the hall. “Besides, none of this would be possible without you.”

“Or you,” Robin admits, thinking of Wally’s long-ago fateful question, “But, indeed, you do seem to attract a disturbing amount of trouble, my friend.”

The smells of dinner waft towards them, tantalizingly vibrant, and they walk, falling easily into pace with one another. Ahead of them, they can hear giggling and shouting and chairs scraping across the floor as everyone shuffles in. For a moment, everything is perfect and Robin wonders how he got to be this lucky.

And then:

“Wait a minute… Wally, did you seriously just call dinner with your family _civilized_ a second ago?”

“Just keep your hands clear of the carnage and you _probably_ won’t lose anything important.”


	2. 52 years ago...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything changes.

Wayne Manor  
7:30 PM  
Fifty-two years earlier

It’s boring. A lot of scientists and technicians, mostly law enforcement, mill around the ballroom. Somewhere in there, Barry and Bruce are pretending not to know each other as they discuss Wayne Enterprise’s latest foray into the development of forensic technology. Commissioner Gordon’s daughter is notably absent, making them the only two kids at the party. And so Wally and Dick are stuck together in their utter boredom.

It’s a good thing they’re best friends.

“Hey, Dick, is that a fob watch?” Wally asks, pointing at the chain running across Dick’s waistcoat. “Can I see?”

Dick blinks in momentary confusion, looking down to see that indeed he was wearing the item in question, and pulls it from his pocket, carefully undoing the chain from his button. _Huh,_ he thinks. He can’t even recall putting it on.

“Cool, thanks!” Wally says, turning it over in his hands. He whistles low, fingers tracing over the intricate design on the watch’s cover. “Kent Nelson had a fob watch, too, but it wasn’t nearly this cool-looking.”

“Honestly, Wally, I forgot I was wearing it,” Dick admits.

Wally snorts. “How could you forget you’re wearing a watch?”

“Well, it’s not like it works or anything,” Dick says, defensively. “It’s an antique. My parents gave it to me - it doesn’t even open! It’s stuck or something.”

Wally makes a silent ‘oh’ of realization and winces a little: “Sorry, man, I thought maybe Bruce got it for you, to match his.” He pauses, holding out the watch in a gesture of genuine contrition, and adds, “You know, maybe all it needs is a little cleaning up or something and it’ll open right up.”

Dick smiles a little, rolling his eyes as he takes the watch back. “Maybe. I don’t know. I’ve never really tried to open it before.”

“Then, how do you know it’s broken?” Wally asks.

“Well,” Dick starts, but then he hesitates. In all the years he’s owned it, he’s never even thought twice about the watch, much less can remember ever attempting to open it. Surely, he must have tried once, because he knows it’s stuck and broken, but he can’t recall ever trying. He looks down at the watch in his hand, tracing his thumb over the intricate interlocking circles on the watch’s cover.

Fire flashes across the backs of his eyelids, accompanied by the sound of warbling, distorted gongs.

“Dick?”

He can hear screaming, words, half-formed and unintelligible, and some that he thinks he should know.

“Dick, are you okay?”

He’s suddenly aware that Wally is shaking his shoulder, green eyes narrowed with concern.

“Still with me, bro? You got real pale there for a second,” Wally says, trying not to sound worried.

Dick blinks, shaking his head, and says, “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just…”

His thumb traces across one of the etched circles again and he suddenly sees a glimpse of his mother, her hands on either side of his head.

“…thinking about my parents,” he finishes, closing his eyes again to try and center himself. “Wally, could you excuse me a minute?”

Wally doesn’t look any less worried, but he nods and steps away. “Do what you gotta do, bro.”

Dick gives him a strained smile and hurries out of the ballroom. He ducks into the first empty bathroom he finds, his hand trembling uncontrollably as he locks the door, and only then does he chance another look at the watch. The symbols on the cover of it are important, familiar…

_“This is for you,”_ his mother says. Sparks rain down behind her head as she holds up the watch. There’s a symbol, spinning around and around, and whispers hiss in his ears. 

Dick traces his thumb around one of the lines and he gets a flash of orange skies and silver leaves, a city beyond them and twin suns rising in the distance. His thumb circles again and he catches a glimpse of mountains covered in snow and a room made of coral with a pulsing light. The images don’t make sense at all, but he feels like there’s something he’s forgotten and this watch is the key to understanding how it’s all connected to him.

And yet, there’s a part of him that insists he should stop and forget the watch because it means something, something about him, his past, some terrible truth he’s forgotten, and if he remembers, it’ll change him, forever.

His thumb traces the circles on the watch again.

_“It’s a new regeneration,”_ his father says, laughing, and he looks different but like Dick’s always remembered.

It’s so strange.

_He’s eight. His initiation is soon._

Initiation into what?

_The Academy._

He gets another flash, a spark, whispers of war.

_Gallifrey. The Citadel. Their trailer. Home._

He turns the fob watch over and over in his hands, pacing the floor.

_Fire._

It’s just a broken watch his parents gave him as a child. There’s nothing special about it, so why does it bring up all these strange images and words, things he thinks he should understand?

_“How do you know it’s broken?”_ the echo of Wally’s voice whispers in his ears.

Dick stops pacing, raises his hand and looks down at the watch, as if seeing it clearly for the first time.

_“Now,”_ a voice, one that sounds almost like his own, says in his head. _“It’s time.”_

His thumb clicks the catch.

It opens.

* * *

It’s a sound Bruce never expected to hear in his own home and, for a moment, he is completely paralyzed in horror, unable to determine the direction of the wailing. Then, _Batman_ takes over and he is running, a headlong, pell-mell charge for the ballroom doors. As soon as he hits the hallway, he sees Wally, shouting and pounding on one of the bathroom doors, and the color drains from his face.

“Dick, open up!” the teen shouts, futilely jiggling the handle. “Dick, come on! Please!”

Bruce isn’t even aware he’s moved until he’s telling the boy to get out of the way and he’s even less cognizant of the fact he has an audience as he throws the full bulk of his weight against the door. It doesn’t matter – only Dick does and he’s in trouble.

The door cracks.

“Dick!” he screams. “Answer me!”

The wailing starts to peter into sobbing.

“Damn it!” Bruce hisses and kicks the door. It shudders. He kicks it again, harder, and this time it practically jumps out of the frame, slamming open with a bang. And then, for a moment, he freezes again.

Dick is sitting on his knees in the center of the floor, like a doll with his strings cut, sobbing heavily. His hand is clenched around something, a watch maybe, and his face is practically ashen.

“Get Leslie Thompson,” Bruce orders, swooping into the room, and is only peripherally aware that someone – Barry, probably - is shooing people away. He wraps his arms around Dick, noting the rapid pulse and how cold the boy feels. “It’s okay, Dick. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Dick’s sobs slowly even out and Bruce can feel the cold fingers curling around his shirt.

“What happened?” he asks, not expecting an answer.

Dick moves his other hand, his fingers tightening, and hot tears spill onto Bruce’s shirt. “They were human. They shouldn’t have died, but they were _human._ ”

“Who, Dick? Who?” Bruce asks, privately praying that Barry and Wally got all the guests away by now.

“My parents.”


	3. Binary System 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The apparent is misleading.

Thomas Wayne Memorial Clinic  
10:00 PM

“I don’t know what to tell you, Bruce,” Leslie says, looking over the charts in her hands. 

A doctor of exceptional caliber and long-time friend of his parents, Leslie is one of the few people he trusts with the secrets of his other life. She is also responsible for providing the medical treatment that neither he nor Alfred can provide in the Batcave.

Leslie puts down the file, sits down and folds her hands into a steeple, before adding: “In fact, were this any other patient, I’d be referring them to the diagnosticians at Princeton Plainsboro.”

“What’s wrong?” Bruce asks, frowning.

“It’s complicated,” Leslie admits and, with a sigh, looks back at the charts for a moment. “I’m not even sure where to start exactly, but I can tell you with an absolute degree of certainly that, physiologically speaking, the boy sitting in my exam room isn’t the same boy that I’ve been treating all these years.”

“Don’t be absurd, Leslie.”

She pulls over the keyboard, types quickly, and then turns the screen towards Bruce. “Then explain this, Bruce.”

It’s a chest x-ray – Dick’s – but there’s something odd about it and his eyes practically glaze when he realizes what he’s looking at.

“Two hearts,” Bruce says quietly, the words heavy on his tongue. 

“Two hearts,” Leslie confirms. “I’ve done all the tests I can here, and they’re all telling me the same thing: he’s somehow grown a second heart. And that’s just scratching the surface. His bloodwork – it’s completely changed. I’ve never seen anything like this, Bruce.”

She pauses, rubbing her forehead wearily, and leans back in her chair. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s a latent meta ability or he’s been exposed to some mutagen. Can you think of anything that could have caused this?”

“Have you tried asking him?” Bruce counters.

Leslie shakes her head sadly. “He’s calmed down, but I haven’t been able to get a word out of him since he was brought in. Did he say anything to you recently, anything that could possibly tell us what’s going on?”

Bruce hesitates, leaning back in his chair. His own heartbeat thunders in his ears and, suddenly, Dick’s odd words from the Manor bathroom come to mind. After a moment, he finally answers, “No, nothing.”

“What are you going to do, Bruce?” she asks and, for the first time, he’s really aware of how much more weary and aged she looks. “I don’t have the slightest idea of what’s wrong with him or how to treat-”

“Dick will be _fine_ ,” Bruce interrupts, rubbing his temple. He can feel a headache coming on and all he wants to do is make sure Dick’s fine and go home. “He’s been fine in your care so far and he’s probably _still_ allergic to aspirin, so I don’t see how this changes anything. Just treat him like you normally do.”

Leslie rises from her chair, now looking deeply concerned. “Bruce… I don’t think you understand how serious this is. If he gets sick or injured, I’m not sure I can help. I wouldn’t even know where to _begin-_ ”

“Leslie, I trust you,” Bruce states firmly, “And I trust Dick. If something’s happened, he’ll tell us when he’s ready.”

That, unfortunately, does little to ease the worry now patently radiating from the doctor. “Bruce,” she starts, approaching him warily, “Are you…”

There’s a sudden knock at the door and a woman’s voice, colored by alarm, calls out, “Doctor Thompson?”

“I’m with a patient,” Leslie states loudly, frowning.

“I’m sorry, I know, but it’s an emergency,” the woman says, very real anxiety in her voice. “The boy in 1940 – he’s gone.”

Bruce is on his feet in an instant, headache completely forgotten, and immediately rushes for the door: “That’s Dick’s room!”

“Bruce, _wait!_ ” Leslie says, reaching for him.

He throws open the door, startling the nurse outside, and pauses a second, looking back over his shoulder. “Don’t worry. I know where he’s going.”

Then, he runs, disappearing down the hallway.

“Bruce,” Leslie says quietly, her face falling as she lets her hand drop. Wearily, she returns to her desk and sits, reaching for an old photo. In it, Martha and Thomas Wayne are caught mid-laugh. She traces their image with a finger and then finally lets out a heavy sigh.

 _Your son keeps getting further and further away,_ she thinks.

She closes her eyes.

_I’m sorry, but I don’t know where he’s going anymore._


	4. Fidelius

Chronic Care Ward  
Room 2011

It’s not the sound of the doorknob turning that wakes Rick up, no. It’s the sudden, unnerving sense that someone is there. His eyes flicker open and he nearly has a heart attack when he sees the slight, shadowy figure stooping in the darkness.

“Who’s there?” he demands, reaching for the call button with his only functional arm.

The figure steps forward into a shaft of moonlight, revealing the familiar, tear-streaked face of his nephew.

“Dick,” he breathes, eyes widening. “What’s wrong? What are you doing here this late?”

Dick doesn’t reply at first, instead reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out something on a silver chain. He turns his hand over, revealing an all-too familiar fob watch, and Rick instantly feels his heart plummet to his stomach.

“I opened it,” Dick says before he can even ask.

Rick sighs heavily. “So, you know, then.”

“Yes,” Dick says, drawing closer and glaring at him through unshed tears. “But there are things I still don’t understand. Why did my father pick your family? Why Haly’s?”

He looks away.

Dick is dead. The boy standing there is the orphaned son of his best friend and brother, one that he’s never met. He doesn’t even know his name.

_“Please,”_ the boy begs. “Uncle Rick, _please_. I _have_ to know.”

Rick closes his eyes, tears spilling unbidden from his eyes as he hears his nephew in every syllable, and words about those stupid watches he’s tried to forget come rushing back. He just wishes that maybe that stupid idiot had warned him it’d be this hard, that it’d hurt this much, or maybe that he’d made him open that stupid watch ages ago, warnings to wait until the all-safe signal be damned.

He sniffs, rubbing his face with his one good hand, and, shakily, speaks up, “You _know_ the truth now. Why still call me uncle?”

Dick sits on the edge of the bed, sniffling, and draws his legs up to his chest like a little kid, hugging them as he rests his head on his knees. “Because you’re my uncle. You’ve been my uncle since I was eight. I’ve never known you as anything else.”

Rick remembers John saying that his son was young – just a child, really. But he’s never really believed it until now, not when he knows John’s people measured their lifespans in millennia. He’s just always assumed that John had been referring to an equivalent age in Earth years, but for the boy to really have been only eight years old back then? God, if that was true, then the kid has spent almost half his life living in this guise! Being Dick, being _his nephew_ , is probably just as real to him as being, well… who he _really_ is.

His heart aches and all he wants to do is smother him in a bear hug, but he can’t, not in his condition, a fact which cuts to the quick.

“It’s just…” Dick pauses, wiping his eyes on his sleeve, “I miss my mom and dad and I want to know why. Why did we have to come here, to this stupid planet? Why didn’t couldn’t we stay us?”

_Why are my parents dead?_

Rick knows that’s what Dick’s really asking. And Dick deserves to know the truth, that much is certain. Rick owes it to his father. He takes a deep breath, licking his dry lips and stares up at the ceiling, letting his mind drift into the past. 

He supposes the best place to start is where it started. “Your father and I were friends. I met him while he was doing research for the Academy – something about parallel realities –“

“…And temporal synchronicity maintained by the existence of parallel but separate and unique versions of super-historical persona archetypes,” Dick finishes.

Rick raises an eyebrow, looking at his nephew.

“It was dad’s thesis. He was always talking about it,” Dick says with a small smile. Then, he sniffles, blinking owlishly, and blushes, ducking his head. “Sorry, continue.”

With a soft chuckle, Rick nods and assures him that it's okay. He lets his head fall back into the pillow, and retraces his way through the paths of memory. “It always sounded so much fun and I was a stupid kid. I leaped at the chance to tag along. And those were the most _amazing_ days of my life.”

Sometimes when he dreams, Rick finds himself back on John’s TARDIS, adventuring through the whole of time, space and the multiverse, and when he wakes, he finds his pillow soaked with tears. And other times, those memories are all he wants to think of, if only to forget the pain he’s endured.

“Well, it didn’t last forever,” Rick says sadly. “I couldn’t keep putting off the next day. But your father and I did stay in touch. He’d pop in whenever he remembered and…”

Dick snorts and rubs his eyes again.

“…And,” Rick pauses, his breath catching in his throat. He sniffs, taking a deep breath, and blinks away tears as he smiles at Dick: “You know, the funny thing about your father was that I never realized how much he envied our lives at Haly’s until he came to us that last time.”

Dick raises his head, eyebrows furrowed in disbelief.

“He always thought of us as having the most fascinating lives,” Rick tries to explain. “You see, he always saw the worth in everything we did, all the lives we touched, the happiness we brought. He loved it, loved every second of it, thought it was the most amazing thing.”

Even now, John’s words about Haly’s and their lives made the hair on the back of his neck stand on edge.

“And then the war came,” Rick continues, taking another deep breath. “He never talked about it, your father. He just… I always got the sense that something bad was going on back home, but he never said. Then, one day, he shows up in a new regeneration, one that could pass for my twin, and tells me all about how the war with the Daleks is getting worse and that the High Council is getting desperate. He said they'd even called back the _Renegades_. I agreed to help him out, hide all of you here until it was safe - that was the plan, anyway.”

Dick shudders, instinctively hugging his knees tighter to his chest, and for a moment, Rick wonders if Dick has _seen_ those monsters. Then, Dick whispers, “What happened next?”

“He left to get you and your mother,” Rick answers, closing his eyes, “I don’t know what happened, but the TARDIS was a wreck - it barely managed to land.”

“We were being chased by the guards,” Dick pipes up, still hugging his knees. He began to rock slowly in place. “They wanted everyone to stay and fight, even Academy kids like me, but dad thought that was crazy. He pulled me from school and told mom we were going to hide in the parallels and wait ‘til it all blew over. But they didn’t want us to leave – they were _firing_ at us and then they tried to shut the transdimensional gates on us and everything was shaking and _burning…_ ”

Tears were streaming from the boy’s eyes as he began to sob in earnest.

For Rick, it had been over five years since his family and friends were murdered.

For his nephew, Dick, it’d been over five years.

For the alien child now sitting next to him, it had just been yesterday that he’d been pulled from his home, his school, his friends, and forced to flee into hiding with strangers.

Mentally, Rick curses John again for putting him in this position and waits, alternately whispering that it’s okay and to let it all out, until Dick finally begins to quiet. He slowly seems to wilt with exhaustion as he does so, instinctively curling in on himself as he tilts lower and lower onto the hospital bed, and all Rick can do for his nephew is run his good hand awkwardly through his hair in an attempt to soothe him.

For a while, there is nothing but silence and the occasional sniffle.

“Your parents loved you very much,” Rick says, quietly. “They didn’t want you to die in the war. That’s why they came here, why they hid and made me promise not to restore them until it was safe.”

Dick sniffles, rubbing his face with a sleeve.

“And every day, I wish that was one promise I hadn’t kept,” he finishes, “I’m sorry.”

Dick doesn’t say anything, still curled by his side.

It is the exact position Bruce Wayne discovers them in when he arrives. By that point, Dick has drifted into an exhausted sleep and Rick hasn’t the heart to wake him. It doesn’t seem like Bruce does either and the wealthy man slumps into one of the empty chairs with an eerie, fluid grace that belies his apparent build.

“Do you know? Has he told you?” Rick asks, softly. “What he is, I mean.”

Bruce doesn’t say anything for a few horrible moments and then, he answers, “It doesn’t matter. Dick is Dick.”

Rick lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. A part of him is surprised at how quickly Bruce has accepted all this. Another part of him, the part that used to travel time and had long-ago connected the dots between Dick and the fleeting glimpses of Robin on the TV _knows_ that Bruce must be used to stranger things. There is a sense of fatalism about this moment, as if this was always where they were supposed to be, and it's something Rick hasn't felt in a long time, not since back _then_. He swallows and quietly, he says: “Promise me you’ll take care of him. Promise me.”

“I promise,” Bruce says and means it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually fixed up a few tiny things for clarity, things that were bothering me about the original Anon post I did.
> 
> Poor Rick. He loses his family, real and adoptive, he's confined to a bed for the rest of forever and all he has left is his dreams of days past and his nephew, and now he doesn't even have that.
> 
> And if Bruce seems a little oddly okay with things... well, you'll see _why_ soon enough. I promise, there is a very good reason for it.


	5. Listen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A man is the sum of his memories and a Time Lord most of all.

December 25  
5:30 AM

Alfred isn’t entirely unused to his charges coming in at odd hours, if they do come home at all, and, when they do deign to return to their proper beds, he is quite used to them remaining there until at least a minimum of five hours have passed – three, if Master Bruce is feeling particularly obstinate. He is, however, very surprised to find his youngest charge in the study before sunrise, especially given the boy’s rather strange, distressing episode the night before and the late hour at which Bruce had brought him home. Add the rather disturbing revelations he’d gleaned from Leslie about the physiological changes young master Dick had undergone, and Alfred finds himself quite concerned.

“Alfred,” Dick says, not even looking back from the shelves. He’s touching things - books, old knickknacks and heirlooms - with an absent-minded, nervous air. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Alfred is well-versed in the language of traumatized children. Years of experience with both Master Bruce and the young master have taught him well when to approach and when to stay his distance. Right now, Dick is saying he wants to talk and Alfred knows well enough to let him.

“It’s too much now,” Dick says, trailing his fingers over the book-bindings. “Sleep, I mean. Before, it wasn’t. Now, it’s just… I don’t know. It’s like I can’t shut the world off anymore.”

Alfred hums in thought. “Perhaps a cup of cocoa would help, young master.”

Dick lets the antique watch – Alan Wayne’s, most likely – he’d been touching go. It swings on its chain in its stand, flickering silver in the dim light. Dick watches it, a strange expression on his face, and then turns back, smiling thinly. “Yes, cocoa. That sounds great, Alfred.”

Not a word is spoken as they make their way to the kitchens. The silence remains steady between them as Alfred works his magic and continues to hold even after he finishes off the cup with a dollop of whipped cream and dusting of cinnamon sugar. But Alfred is nothing if not patient and he knows that he must wait for Dick to speak first.

Dick sips the cocoa, closing his eyes, and then lets out a sigh that seems too heavy for one so young. “It’s the best, as always, Alfred.”

Alfred graciously nods his acknowledgement of the compliment, though holds back the instinct to quip about being kept around only to prevent Master Bruce from starving through his own culinary ineptitude. In another time, it would be a welcome bit of levity, but the timing was not right at the moment. Instead, he occupies his hands with preparing breakfast.

“We didn’t have things like this on Gallifrey,” Dick says, staring into the cup as if all the secrets of the universe were held within. “I remember that now. And I remember the first time dad brought some back from Earth - it was the strangest thing I’d ever tasted and all my friends in Academy were so jealous.”

Alfred notes the vaguely familiar-sounding name, filing it away for future reference, and idly wonders where he’d heard it before.

The boy’s shoulders begin to tremble as he lowers his head, trying to hide the tears threatening to spill again, and then he sniffles, rubs his eyes with the back of his hand and takes another sip of cocoa. “All my friends are probably dead now.”

“Not all, surely,” Alfred says, pausing in his preparations. _Ah, so there it is - the heart of the matter,_ Alfred concludes mentally and then adds, “I believe you’re forgetting about your friends here.”

Dick visibly stiffens and then sinks lower into his chair, cradling the mug between his hands. “That’s the thing, Alfred. They’re Dick – _Robin’s_ friends. They know him, not me.”

“Are you not still Robin?” Alfred asks.

“Yes, but…”

“Do you not possess all his memories?”

“Well, yeah, but…”

“Then it’s very simple, isn’t it? You’re still their friend, young master,” Alfred points out.

Dick chews on his lip a little as he thinks, his frown growing deeper and deeper. Then, he blurts out, “They’re going to think I _lied_ to them! It’s not like I meant to, but how am I supposed to explain that I’m still _me_ – that… that it’s not my fault I didn’t know? Wally and I have been best friends for _years_ , Alfred! What am I supposed to tell him? _Gee, sorry, Wally, I forgot to mention I’m an alien refugee, but it’s okay, cause my parents made me forget everything!_ Yeah, _that’ll_ go over real well.”

Alfred hums noncommittally as he turns around and sits. “Young master, maybe it’s best that you be up front with them. If they are truly your friends, then surely they will understand.”

"You don't understand!" Dick protests. His knuckles are white against the mug. "After all that happened, all those lies..."

"Then," Alfred pauses, gently removing the mug from his charge's hand, "All the more reason to get it over with. Hm?"

That appears to have been the correct thing to say, as Dick slowly begins to relax, a slight smile appearing on his lips.

“Now, let’s see about breakfast, shall we?” Alfred says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few more minor corrections for clarity here and there.
> 
> Alfred, speaker of truths.


	6. The Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is in a name?

December 25  
6:00 AM

Alfred has always had a knack for putting things in perspective. It's a talent that Dick respects. It's just that in _this_ case, things are quite a bit more complicated than they would at first appear to be.

Up until last night, he was Dick Grayson and, in a way, he still _is_ Dick Grayson. He's got nearly as many years of _real, honest-to-goodness_ memories of being Dick as he does fake ones and when he looks in the mirror, it's Dick Grayson that stares back at him. He's been him so long that even his name, his _real_ name, feels almost foreign on his tongue and that's terrifying, because it _shouldn't._

Dick died as a human the second he opened the Chameleon Arch. He had never even really existed to begin with. He was a mask, created to feed into the story his father had woven to hide them with Uncle Rick and Haly's, and he had served his purpose. It would be pointless to pretend that he's still him when he's got his own, very real identity.

And yet...Dick is still _Dick_. He _has_ to be.

He frowns, poking at his eggs with a fork.

It's not like he can go home, if _home_ even exists anymore. For all he knows, the War is still raging or _worse_ and the place in his head where his people should be is ominously silent; it's a fact that terrifies him on the most basic level, even as he tries to logically assure himself that maybe it's just _this universe_ and not something _worse_. Still, in the case that they had won the War, he hasn't the faintest idea of where his father's TARDIS is, much less how to pilot it back across the Void. He'd only been in his first year at the Academy - cross-temporal-parallel dimension travel wasn't even covered until at least the hundredth year, if one was particularly lucky and _very_ talented - and, barring further access to a TARDIS, it's likely that first year of education is all he'll ever get.

He won't even have the luxury of ever having a title.

Not that he would, if he ever got back anyway. By leaving in direct defiance of the High Council, he and his parents had gone renegade. They'd be denied all but their titles - and he, still a kid, wouldn't even have that much.

Dick Grayson is all he has left to define himself by then, even though he _knows_ that Dick isn't really real.

He pauses, sifting through the memories that are real and false and both all at once, and then amends the thought: _Robin_ is still there. That, too, he still can call a part of himself, perhaps even more easily than he can with Dick. And in a strange way, the name Robin feels oddly _right_ , as if it were always meant to be a part of him. The syllables roll smoothly across his mind in time with the song of this universe and it's like a distant chord has snapped into place somewhere. He thinks, perhaps, Robin could be something like his title - no, he _knows_ it is. Dick may have invented Robin, but it _belongs_ to _him_ , much in the same way Dick does. After all, both were technically generated from aspects of himself and a title, in truth, has always been something of the way a Time Lord chooses to define themselves.

Robin is crimefighter, protector, vengeance, cleverness. Robin is both Dick and more than Dick could ever dream.

Yes, he supposes Robin is a truly fitting title for him.

And yet...

His eyes slide to Alfred, who is observing the meal silently in his own subtle way, and then to Bruce, who presides over the table and remains singularly focused on his meal, as if there is nothing out of the ordinary when _everything_ is. Then, he lowers his eyes, guiltily.

He _can't_ stop being Dick Grayson. Not yet. He still needs the identity - still needs _them_. But, more than that, so do _they_ \- Bruce, most of all. He's not even sure they realize just how much they do, but he can see it now, plain as day, and it breaks his hearts a little. Everything that Dick felt is _his_ , but now there's so much more he understands and they do not. No, he certainly can't leave. He'll stay Dick Grayson for them as long as he can, because they need him to.

Bruce looks up then and smiles a little.

Robin tries to ignore the pain seeing it brings, because he _knows_ , with all the certainty of a Time Lord, that there will come a day when it won't be possible for Bruce to pretend anymore. On that day, there will be no going back for any of them.

So, he smiles back and lets himself pretend that nothing is wrong, that he is still Dick and that he is human, if only for their sake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original version of this chapter I did for the Anon meme wasn't as strong as I thought it could be, so I redid it, top to bottom. Hopefully, this gets across more of the general points I was trying to make about how messed up his concept of identity has become and how being very young when put under the Chameleon Arch could negatively impact that, especially when being under it for a near equal amount of years to his actual age when he went under.
> 
> The Doctor and Master both were adults, with centuries and centuries of memories under their belts, when they used the Arch. The effects on them were a momentary blip on their total lives, but for Robin? Robin was eight, with only eight years of memories. Being Dick was _literally_ half his life.


	7. Bird Nest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If only nothing changed...

The Batcave  
December 25  
9:00 AM

“Master Bruce, a word, if you will,” Alfred says, stopping him at the bottom of the stairs.

Bruce pauses, looking up from what is very likely his third cup of coffee for the day. He has a feeling he knows what this is going to be about.

Fortunately, Dick is elsewhere, further back in the cave and towards a little-used storage section near the separating wall for the bat habitats. Had he taken two more steps to his left, it would have been impossible to spot Dick. The cave wall here had formed strangely, producing the illusion it was flat, when it actually hid a tight corner into a deeper, older part of the cave system. It was also, fortuitously, far enough away that any sound from their conversation would not reach him.

“It’s about the young master,” Alfred continues, instantly confirming Bruce’s suspicions.

“All right, what is it?” he asks, continuing on towards his workbench. He doesn’t particularly want to talk about this, not right now, and he can already feel the start of a headache coming on.

Alfred follows, giving him the same deeply concerned look that Leslie had given him. “I’ve taken the liberty of reviewing the medical report.”

Bruce puts down his coffee on the workbench, his expression slipping into a careful blank. “And?”

“I believe it raises some valid concerns about his field-worthiness,” Alfred states seriously. He hesitates then, body radiating clear unease. “Master Bruce, it might be best to pull him from the field until we know more about… what has happened to him.”

Bruce rubs his forehead, pushing the coffee mug away from him. His head throbs and suddenly the smell of the coffee is nauseating. “So, you think he’s a threat?”

“No, Master Bruce,” Alfred says, slightly taken aback by the accusing tone. “That’s not it at all. I’m just _concerned_ for him – and _you_.”

Bruce grunts standoffishly, deliberately dropping heavily into his work chair with his arms stubbornly crossed.

Alfred sighs and it’s a sigh of weariness, one that makes him sound old. “I talked with Master Dick earlier. Whatever has happened, it’s reopened some very old wounds for him. I can’t pretend to know the full extent of what they are based on what little he was willing to say, but, Master Bruce, he called himself a _refugee_. He _believes_ his home – this _Gallifrey_ – is lost to him.”

“Gallifrey,” Bruce murmurs, frowning as he tries and fails to place it. His headache certainly is not helping either. “It sounds vaguely familiar.”

“I thought so as well, sir, so I took it upon myself to do a little digging during your morning exercises,” Alfred says, turning towards the computer console on the adjacent workbench. He pulled up a file, continuing: “There was a minor mention of it buried in the Justice Society archives, as the home planet of an extraterrestrial scientist.”

With a fluid swipe of his finger on the screen, Alfred sends it to the workbench monitor. “Does he look familiar to you?”

The photos are washed out and grainy, but there is no mistaking the man in them: it’s John Grayson, Dick’s father. He’s standing off to the side, dressed in clothing that wouldn’t have looked out of place when Bruce was in high school, and is speaking with the Green Lantern, Alan Scott, about a dismantled device.

“I don’t understand,” Bruce says, frowning and rubbing his head.

“Apparently, his claims about being a time-traveler from another universe might have had more merit than the JSA suspected,” Alfred states, raising his eyebrows in good humor. 

Bruce knows better than to argue the existence of parallel universes – their last run-in with a parallel universe hadn’t exactly been a pleasant experience for anyone involved – but time travel, on the other hand? While theoretically and evidently _very_ possible in his experience, the very idea of it has always made his head hurt and his stomach turn with anxiety. It’s never been a good thing in his eyes. The potential for abuse is completely staggering. It’s not a technology anyone on this world should have. He shudders at the very idea of what someone like Lex Luthor could do with access to that kind of technology.

Silence falls, momentarily deafening, and he reflexively reaches for the coffee mug, taking a sip. It does little to soothe his nausea or headache, but the action at least is familiar enough to start calming him down.

“Stop beating around the bush, Alfred,” Bruce says at last, closing the file and raising his eyes to meet those of the man who had more or less raised him.

Alfred’s expression sobers, now totally serious. “Master Bruce, it stands to reason that _perhaps_ the other things he disclosed about his homeworld are _also_ true, such as the mention of a _war_ \- a war with another race bent on their -”

“Extermination, I _know,_ ” Bruce says, cutting him off. “It’s the same old story. We’ve heard a hundred variations of it before.”

They both know he’s right: _hell_ , half the alien superheroes he knows have a backstory like that. Not to mention, tragic backgrounds are practically par for the course in their business to begin with, a fact that’s almost become a sort of gallows humor joke in and of itself.

“It doesn’t change anything,” Bruce states simply.

Alfred gives him another very concerned look. “Master Bruce, it changes _everything._ ”

The mug in Bruce’s hand abruptly shatters in his hand, coffee and ceramic shards going everywhere. His heartbeat is drumming out a staccato that drowns everything except the adrenaline and that _awful_ headache. Numbly, he looks at his empty hand, covered in lukewarm coffee, and the shards of the mug.

“My word, are you all right, Master Bruce?” Alfred asks, closing the distance between them. His face is chalk white.

Bruce blinks slowly. He feels dazed. “I…”

“Perhaps it would be prudent if you got some rest,” Alfred says, “You don’t seem well.”

“I’m fine,” he responds automatically. The words are out of his mouth before he even has the time to think them, much less raise his hand to examine it for damage. “I’m _fine_ , really. Stop worrying.”

Alfred hesitates, then slowly draws back. The concern on his face has not faded: if anything, it has only deepened.

“Look, I understand, I _do_ ,” Bruce says, sighing heavily as he rubs his head. “But I’m not pulling him from the field.”

Alfred levels him with a somber glare of disapproval. “Master Bruce, sir, due diligence demands I remind you that neither _you_ nor _I_ have any idea how to treat someone of the young master’s _unique_ physiology. If something should happen –“

“It won’t,” Bruce interrupts.

Alfred’s lips draw into little more than a tight, thin line and his eyes practically burn with a cold fury. “You are _not_ invulnerable, Master Bruce. I already buried your parents. I _refuse_ to bury their son _or_ help that son bury his _child_.”

Bruce doesn’t say anything, but he can’t stop the flinch. It’s an old argument at heart and, if he is honest with himself, he can’t remember how many times they’ve had it since he started down the path he’s on.

“I _am_ worried, Bruce, because you are _scaring_ me,” Alfred states, deliberately seeking eye contact. “You don’t seem the _slightest_ bit concerned about the situation.”

“You’re wrong.” The words are practically a pained croak and Bruce is hardly aware he’s the one who said them. “I _am._ I’m _terrified._ He’s my _son_ , Alfred. That’s why everything needs to _look_ …”

As he trails off, a look of comprehension dawns on Alfred’s face and his expression fades slowly into weary acceptance. His mouth opens soundlessly and then clicks shut, any word of further comment quickly slipping behind the mask of a butler’s decorum.

“No one must know,” Bruce states quietly. “Not the League, not the Green Lanterns – _no one._ Is that clear?”

“Of course, sir,” Alfred answers.

He knows Alfred won’t tell a soul.

Dick comes around the corner then, smiling brightly.

“Did you find anything interesting back there?” Bruce asks, looking at him.

“Yep,” Dick says, nodding eagerly. He then tilts his head to the side, his grin turning mischievous. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

Bruce rolls his eyes, his headache already quickly fading. “If this _it’s_ got a broken rotor, I’m not sure I want to know.”

Dick stills suddenly, leveling him with the strangest look, and then it’s gone as he relaxes and laughs. “I didn’t touch it – it was _already_ broken when I found it!”

“Like the motorcycle, then?” Bruce quips, smirking at the all-too-familiar exchange.

“It was rust, I tell you, _rust_ ,” Dick says, in a low, mock-serious tone. “It’s not my fault if you never clean this place!”

“I’ll assure you, young master, that this place is _always_ tidy,” Alfred plays along, pretending to bristle at the slight against his skills.

“And _damp_ ,” Dick moans theatrically. “Why couldn’t we have a warm cave instead?”

“The League did,” Bruce says, deadpan. “It was in a volcano. But honestly, it was a little too… secret villainous lair for our tastes. Totally gave the wrong idea about us.”

“But it’s perfectly okay for kids,” Dick fake-whines, “Okay, then.”

Bruce clamps a hand on his shoulder, smiling as he leans in. “That’s because _all_ children are secretly our evil overlords. All adults know that.”

Dick pantomimes a villainous face and laughs, slipping out of his grasp, and the chase is on. It is absurd and normal, all at once, but it is okay. For a moment, they all can forget.

Dick is his son: nothing can change that. 

And in the end, that’s all that really ever matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Bruce - just wants to pretend things are still the same. At least, in this respect, Dick is not alone.
> 
> Could not resist poking fun at how much stuff they break in the Batcave - really, they break so much equipment. It's a good thing Bruce is a billionaire.
> 
> This is the second chapter that I decided to overhaul from the top to bottom, as the original I did for the anon meme wasn't nearly as strong as I wanted. It's a lot different from that one, in more than a few respects.


	8. Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holidays end, life goes on.

December 26  
10:32 AM

“We’re here,” Bruce says, pulling their undercover car to a stop near the south side Zeta tube. 

Robin looks up at him, a sudden and inexplicable wave of panic washing over him as all that is and was the human _Dick Grayson_ within him comes bubbling madly to the surface and collides with the inescapable truth of his nature. Right now, he is more a terrified child inside than he has been in years, bleeding blind panic from that part of his being that has never been allowed to grow or heal, and it conflicts harshly with the part of him that is the Boy Wonder. His hand automatically drifts to the familiar form of the Chameleon Arch, sitting in his utility belt, and he finds himself staring at it again. From a distance, it might be mistaken for any old fob watch, but now there is no mistaking what it is: a storage interface, designed to conceal and go unnoticed. He frowns as he runs his thumb over the familiar loops of his native tongue in a vague attempt to find comfort in the words engraved there.

“Come on, now,” Bruce says, popping the door locks. “Your friends are waiting.”

Robin narrows his eyes, glaring down the block at the alleyway where the Zeta tube is concealed, and tucks the watch back in his belt, quickly pulling his winter coat back over it. The other day, he’d been practically chomping at the bit to get back to Mount Justice and the team. Now, he’s not so sure. It seems like it’s all too soon. He’s sure he’d had more time before he had to go back to Mount Justice or, at least, time enough to figure out what to tell everyone.

By Rassilon, just how the hell was he going to explain all of this to Dick’s – _his_ friends? 

“Are you sure about this?” Robin asks, hesitating. “The scanner probably won’t even recognize me now.”

Bruce gives him one of _those_ looks, one that makes him feel silly and profoundly stupid for even having suggested such a thing. 

“Of course,” Robin mumbles, shooting a hesitant glance over his shoulder at the way they’d come. He should have known it would already be taken care of. Yet, there’s this little nagging part of his mind that was hoping it hadn’t been, so that he could just go back to the comfort of the Cave for another day or two and avoid this whole situation for a little while longer.

“It’ll be okay,” Bruce says, unexpectedly. “There’s no reason to worry.”

Robin lets out a stifled, nervous giggle and then sighs, running his hand over his face as he collects himself. “Is it really that obvious?”

Bruce, again, gives him a telling look and then snorts, blowing air through his teeth in a soft ‘tt’ sound. 

“What do I tell them?” Robin asks and even he is aware of how small and uncertain he sounds. Even with both Bruce and Alfred’s assurances, he’s still worried. His team had all had such bad experiences with secrets being kept from them. There really is no telling how they’d take a revelation of _this_ magnitude.

Bruce is silent a moment and then, carefully, reaches over and pushes up the sunglasses on Robin’s face so that they sit properly. “You’re Robin,” he says, with the same finality as if the words were meant to explain everything.

Robin stares at him for a moment, blinking, and then smiles a little. “Yeah,” he says, popping up his collar, “I suppose I am.”

Bruce nods, a quick hum of approval on his lips as his attention shifts back to the road ahead.

Robin opens the door and steps out of the car, only pausing a moment to lean back in. “Hey, take care of yourself, okay?”

Bruce gives him a short salute and a wink and, reluctantly, Robin withdraws, closing the passenger door. He watches silently as his mentor drives away and turns the corner, no doubt to ditch the car at a nearby safe house. Then, he shoves his hands in his pockets and quietly makes his way down the block to the Zeta tube.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dick, you are talking to Bruce Crazy-Prepared Wayne.


	9. Mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once done, cannot be undone.

Mount Justice  
10:40 AM

Connor is alone in the lounge, quietly flipping through channels on the TV. He knows he is not alone: he can hear everyone in the base as easily as if they were all in the same room. The regular residents, M'gann and Zatanna, had remained over the holiday and they'd had a nice quiet little party. The others had only started returning within the last day or so, starting with the Atlanteans, then Artemis and Raquel, and finally a preoccupied and unusually quiet Wally. Apparently, something had happened to Dick at a party they'd gone to, though Wally didn't want to talk about it. Whatever it was, it still has the speedster rattled pretty good.

Connor frowns, deliberately flicking past a network for cartoons, and shoots a discreet look at said speedster, currently in the middle of raiding the fridge. He wants to ask what's going on, yet he doesn't: some things _need_ to be private. He gets it, he does, and he doesn't want to be rude but Dick is their friend, too.

 _"Recognized: B-01, Robin,"_ the computer announces. It sounds like it's coming from the Briefing Room at the heart of the mountain.

All of a sudden, there's a terrifying lurch of pain and burning that shoots through his mind and M'gann's psychic presence, which has until now been a silent but constant wall of comfort, simply blinks out. A crash and cry of pain from the kitchen tells him that Wally felt it, too, but he's already on his feet and running. He knows instinctively that M'gann is in trouble.

Superboy bursts into the Briefing Room. Zatanna is kneeling by an unconscious M'gann, her face pale and pulse thundering. Dick is standing near the Zeta tubes, his expression torn and his hand outstretched. He sees only them, but he _hears_ five heartbeats in the room.

Superboy narrows his eyes, slipping into infrared vision to find the intruder, and immediately tenses as he sees the source of the mystery heartbeat.

"Who are you?" he shouts, launching himself at Dick – or rather, the imposter wearing his face – and ignores Zatanna's alarmed cry. "What did you do to her?"

Dick pales, horror and pain painting his face, and leaps out of the way, turning an all-too-familiar cartwheel as he lands one-handed and rolls into a crouch. "I didn't do anything! It's me! I swear!"

"What the hell is going on?" Wally demands as he skids to a halt in the doorway. His eyes widen: "What are you doing?"

 _"LIAR!"_ Connor bellows, leaping into the air and raising his fist for a haymaker. It misses the impostor Robin by only a hair's breadth, crushing the floor, and he curses as his nimble opponent seems to slip too easily from his grasp, almost blurring.

Wally, too, curses and tries to intercede, but Superboy knocks him out of the way and the speedster slides all the way to the wall on the other side of the room.

"Wally!" the imposter shouts, horrified, and then squeaks as Superboy's hands nearly catch him. He slides in a way that's entirely too fluid and unnatural, as if time itself is bending around him. "Please, stop, let me explain," the imposter begs, scrambling backwards. "It's not what you think!"

Connor growls, his voice low and menacing, "Robin only has one heart. I can hear both of yours. Who are you? What have you done to M'gann?"

 _"Superboy, stop,"_ M'gann's psychic voice cuts through his mind. He turns, immediately, and he can see her sitting up, wincing as she holds one side of her head. _"It's all right. I'm fine. I was just… unprepared, that's all."_

 _"But,_ " he starts mentally, sending her the image of the two hearts.

M'gann shakes her head slowly, allowing Zatanna to help her to her feet, and again broadcasts across the link: _"It's not what you think. He's telling the truth. He really is Robin."_

"I'm sorry," Robin says aloud. His expression is crushed and stricken. "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

M'gann gently floats forward and wraps her arms around him, pulling him into a hug. With a sob, the boy's arms wrap around her waist, and she sighs, running a hand over his head soothingly. "Oh, Robin, it's okay. _I'm_ okay. I know you didn't mean to. You just surprised me, that's all."

"'m so stupid," the boy moans. "This wasn't how it was supposed to go. You weren't supposed to find out this way."

"Is anyone else here confused?" Wally asks, getting to his feet. He's holding his ribs and winces a little as he straightens up. "Rob, what's going on?"

Robin pulls back from M'gann, reaches under his shirt for his utility belt and pulls out something small and metallic. He tosses it at Wally, his face schooled in a careful neutral expression, and Wally catches it. The speedster opens his hands and looks down at the object – a fob watch. Recognition dawns on his face and he looks up at Robin, bewildered.

"It's called a Chameleon Arch," Robin states matter-of-factly. "The people of my world use it to hide from our enemies. It rewrites our DNA, our memories – everything about us – so we can blend in with a local population. In my case, my parents programmed it to make me human."

Connor stares, wide eyed, and he's not the only one. Only M'gann is not surprised: her expression is one of profound sorrow.

"I suppose I have to thank you, Wally," Robin says in a clipped tone that did nothing to hide the slight edge of bitterness to it. "If you hadn't been so insistent and broke the perception filter, I'd never have opened it."

The boy inclines his head and this time the sense of how betrayed he feels is palpable. "Why couldn't you have just left it alone? I was _happy_."

Wally recoils, as though struck. "Oh my god, I am so sorry, Rob. I didn't know."

"No one was _supposed_ to know," Robin says, tersely. His fists clench and unclench at his sides and Connor can hear the twin hearts thudding in the small teen's chest. "This… This changes nothing. I'm _still_ Robin. I'm still a member of this team, but I'm also what I am: a Time Lord, of Gallifrey. You can deal with it or get off the team – Batman's orders."

Connor shifts on his feet uncertainly and looks to M'gann. She is calm and so very saddened, but she does not quail in the face of the aggressive words. Instead, she accepts them and, very hesitantly, he thinks in her direction, wondering what he should do.

 _"Oh, Connor,"_ she responds mentally, tears in her eyes. _"If you only saw what I did… He has lost so much. He cannot lose us too."_

He trusts her, so Connor lets go of his doubts and accepts, extending his hand in friendship even as he commits the quick one-two-three-four pulse of Robin's hearts to memory.

"Welcome back to Young Justice, Robin of Gallifrey," M'gann says, holding out her hand as well. One by one, the others follow and things seem like they're well on their way back to normal.

And yet, it isn't until Connor's hand clasps around Robin's smaller one and the ripple of touch-telepathy that flares between them lays bare the deep sense of disappointment and betrayal in the smaller boy's heart that he truly understands that things will _never_ be the same again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That could have gone much better. But, as M'gann said: she was surprised and unprepared for another telepathic presence - and Time Lords are very, _very_ different from Martians.


	10. Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An ominous dream casts a shadow over Mount Justice.

Mount Justice

March 17th, one year later

1:45 AM

It’s the sound of someone screaming that startles M’gann into consciousness. She sits up like a shot, her eyes wide open and heart racing in her chest. For a very brief moment, she doesn’t know quite where she is or whose bed she is in. The room is familiar and strange all at once. Then, the fog lifts, reality reasserts itself, and she recognizes that she is in her bed, in her room, safe and sound. 

The door opens with a bang, making her jump in bed, and there is Connor, fright clearly painting his features. “I heard a scream,” he states, out loud, and she understands his unsaid question. 

_Are you all right?_

“I’m fine,” she tells him, getting out from under the covers. The floor is cold beneath her feet and, closing her eyes, she uses that jarring cold to clear her mind. She ignores all the noise and distractions of Earth, trying to focus on the origin of that scream. Then, finally, she opens her eyes again and meets his worried gaze. 

“Something has gone terribly wrong,” M’gann states. 

Even in the dim light, she can still see the color drain from his face. 

* * *

Elsewhere

_If only I’d been faster._

_If only I hadn’t hesitated._

_Next time, it’ll be different._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, I know. But it's important.


	11. Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stephanie Brown is used to many things, but this is new.

East Shipyard

Gotham

2:15 AM

Stephanie Brown isn’t unused to finding bodies in Gotham, especially in this part of town. The shipyards are notorious for being used as a dumping ground even now. What she is _not_ used to, however, is bodies that pull themselves from the water, much less those that stagger a few feet, ask for help, and promptly pass out. 

She’s even _less_ used to them being children. 

The boy is heavier than he looks and he’s not that much younger than her, but he’s still on the small side, a fact that she’s secretly grateful for. His clothes, a bodysuit of some kind, look like they were shredded and burnt before getting soaked, in stark contrast to the fact that he appears to be uninjured, at least physically anyway. Still, it’s worrying how cold his skin feels to the touch; she doesn’t know much about first aid, but she knows that’s not good. 

“Hey, kid,” she says, deliberately jostling him. “You need to stay awake.” 

He stirs sluggishly and coughs. Something gold and glimmering wafts past her ear, from about where she knows his face is. 

She pauses, tensing, and groans: “What the hell have I gotten myself into now?” 

“Sorry,” the boy mumbles, his head dropping back against her shoulder. “I’ll explain later. ‘M tired. Need to sleep.” 

“Oh, no you don’t, you little brat,” Stephanie says, roughly jostling him again, and picks up her pace. The place she’s been crashing with her dad isn’t too much further. 

He groans, coughing again, and more of that strange, shimmering gold light wafts past her head. “But I’m _tired_.” 

“Hi, tired, I’m Stephanie,” she jokes, as they turn the corner and, finally, she sees the familiar brick building she’s been calling home. It’s a welcome relief. The kid mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like _my name is not tired, that’s just stupid_ and she lets out a heavy sigh, rolling her eyes. 

She really isn’t a kid-person. 

Navigating through the building with her cargo isn’t very easy, but she manages and it’s with a great sigh of relief that she finally drops him rather unceremoniously on her sofa-turned-bed. She scrounges up some blankets while managing to ignore the somewhat annoyed, sleepy look the boy is shooting her and drops them next to him, now turning her attention to finding him something to wear. 

“You need to get out of those clothes,” she states, pulling one of her dad’s old sweaters out of the clean laundry pile. In the back of her head, she’s desperately trying to recall everything she’s ever seen on TV about hypothermia and separate it out from the dramatic filler. Wet clothes, she recalls, are distinctly not of the good. Finding a set of Gotham University sweats that look like they’ll fit, she nods absently and deposits the items on top of the blankets. 

The boy stares at her, eyes clearly straining to stay open. 

“I won’t throw them out, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she promises. “Look, you’re just going to have to trust me. I’m going to turn around now.” 

She does just that, hyperaware of the kid’s green eyes fixed on her back. He really must not trust easily, she notes, and idly wonders how he must have come to be in the harbor. 

Whatever the reason was, it can’t have been good, she decides. 

Behind her, the rustling stops, and, when she looks, the boy has managed to get dressed and bundle himself up in the blankets rather thoroughly. Only the damp curls of his hair and his face are still visible. Again, he coughs and at last she sees where that gold smoke stuff was coming from; he’s been coughing it up from his lungs, but it doesn’t look like it’s bothering him at all. In fact, he just looks utterly exhausted. 

With a weary sigh, she sits down next to him on the battered old sofa. The springs creak as he leans over to rest against her shoulder. He’s still so cold. She shivers and pulls another blanket over both of them. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs. 

“It’s okay,” Stephanie says, but she can’t tell if he’s heard her. His eyes are closed and his chest is already rising and falling in the steady rhythm of slumber. 

In a few minutes, she finds herself drifting to sleep as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers. ;)


	12. Get a Clue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stephanie sits on the edge of two paths.

Gotham  
March 17th  
7:39 PM

If she has to be honest with herself, Stephanie had never quite imagined that dragging home that kid would lead to the situation she was in at the moment. 

She sighs, poking at her TV dinner with her fork, and shoots the door to her room a baleful look while her father continues to prattle on about the state of affairs in the more colorful end of Gotham’s nightlife. In a way, it’s absurd almost to the point of being funny because there he is talking about how the word on the street is that Robin’s been blown to bits by Two Face and here she is, the only one who _knows_ that Robin is still sound asleep in the next room. 

It was the bodysuit that gave it away, she muses quietly while munching on a dinosaur-shaped chicken nugget. Every kid in Gotham knew that suit on sight and doubly so if one of their parents happened to be in the business of getting Batman mad at them; which, unfortunately, described her father quite well. 

Stephanie, of course, had hidden it the _second_ she realized what it was. Sure, the kid seemed younger and smaller than all the pictures, but kids didn’t just pop out of the harbor wearing these kinds of things in that kind of condition for no reason. And, in the absence of any other explanation, the answer was patently obvious. 

The boy currently sleeping like a log in her bed had to be Robin, _Batman’s sidekick._

“Are you okay, Stephanie?” her father asks, his face drawn with worry. “Is something wrong?” 

Stephanie hesitates, chewing on her lip a little. If she told her father, then he’d do something stupid, like try use the kid to find out Batman's secret identity or use the kid to try and get leverage with Two Face. As clever as her dad was, he sometimes forgot just how scary dangerous people like Batman and Two Face really are. It’s worrisome, really. He’s already been in so much trouble and she doesn’t want him to go back to Blackgate or _worse_. 

“It’s nothing,” she lies, smiling. “Just thinking.” 

At that, her father chuckles and reaches over, ruffling her hair with one hand. “Don’t think too hard, kiddo. You don’t want to get wrinkles.” 

“My brain has wrinkles,” she fires back tartly. 

“I’d be worried if it didn’t,” he says, in good humor. 

In the other room, Robin continues to sleep, undisturbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we shed some light on a few things, including Stephanie's situation and her relationship with her father, Arthur Brown, aka Cluemaster.


	13. I'll Explain Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You are Robin, right?"

Gotham   
11:23 PM

It’s the sound of chairs being moved and hushed voices that wakes Stephanie. At first, she thinks it’s her father, but as her eyes find the digital clock in the darkness she immediately realizes that it’s too early in the night to be him. He won't be back for a long time yet. 

The lights blaze on and she winces, instinctively curling in on herself as her eyes struggle to adjust. 

“Oh, sorry,” says the boy – Robin, she amends mentally. “But I really wanted to get a look at myself before I left.” 

Stephanie blinks, sitting up, and almost immediately does a double take: was this really the kid she’d pulled out of the harbor the night before? 

He’s not as young as she’d thought he was and certainly not as short as he’d seemed, but maybe that was just the way he was carrying himself or how much better he looked than the night before. It was now obvious that he was probably a little older than her, but not by too much, and he had a stocky, broad-shouldered build. His hair is a black curly mess and his eyes – green, they were green – are focused on his reflection in the mirror, studying it with clear curiosity. 

It's almost like he's never seen it before, but that would be silly. It is far more likely that he is just checking to make sure he wasn’t still hurt. 

“You’re leaving?” she manages, after a moment. 

He nods, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

And it is, really, because he would have to wake up and go home sometime, wouldn’t he? 

“Of course,” he says, echoing her thoughts perfectly. “They’re probably quite worried about me.” 

“Everyone’s saying you’re dead,” Stephanie says. “Two Face, you know?” 

Robin shrugs and smiles, like he knows some grand joke that’s lost on everyone else. 

“You _are_ Robin, right?” she asks. 

At that, he grins broadly, and looks over his shoulder at her. “Oh, _definitely._ Just not the first.” 

“There are _more_ of you?” Stephanie practically squeaks, flabbergasted. Boy, that sure would explain a _lot!_

Robin (not the first) looks momentarily taken aback at the question, as if he’s struggling to find a way to put what he’s thinking into words. Then, quite abruptly, he turns away, glowering at the mirror. “No, it’s not like that,” he pauses, raising his hand to his face, and, rather weakly adds, “It’s complicated.” 

An awkward silence falls as she realizes he isn’t about to elaborate. 

“You’re a _lot_ different than I imagined,” she says at last, sighing. 

“That’s okay,” he replies, grinning at his reflection as he examines it. “I’m a lot different than I imagined, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same code, different case.


	14. Phone Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin seeks home and Stephanie tries to make sure he doesn't get lost on the way.

March 18th  
12:01 AM

Snow is falling and Robin is humming as he skips ahead, twirling absently as he goes. His face is bright with mischief and he almost seems to glide across the slick ground effortlessly. Even in his tattered bodysuit and borrowed sweater, he seems immune to the chill New England air. 

Stephanie, lamentably, has no such luck. She huffs irritably and hunkers down further into her favorite purple winter coat, plodding steadily along and trying not to slip on the pavement in the process. 

“You don’t have to follow me, you know,” he calls back to her. 

She frowns at him. “Of course I do! How are you supposed to get home safe, stupid? All your stuff’s probably at the bottom of the harbor!” 

Robin gives her a strange, long, evaluating look, and then shrugs, smiling. “I’ve got my ways.” 

“What are you going to do? Call Batman?” Stephanie asks. “In case you haven’t noticed, it’s not like you can just ring some Bat signal and he’ll show up. You’ve got to _do_ something _bad_ before he comes around.” 

He just laughs, as if she’s said something funny, and it’s nothing like the high pitched, terrifying _cackle_ her father describes: it’s warm and honest. Then, he looks at her and very, very seriously, says: “Well, then, Miss Brown, we’ll just have to _do_ something, won’t we?” 

She stares at him. “You’re kidding, right?” 

“Maybe,” he replies, hopping up onto a cement divider. He walks down its length effortlessly, as if he has no fear of losing his balance. Then, looking over his shoulder, he adds, “Maybe not.” 

Stephanie puffs up her cheeks in irritation. Some superhero he is, she thinks to herself: he behaves more like a kid! 

“He’ll be looking for me,” Robin states, rather abruptly. He stands on the edge of the divider and there is a strange moodiness to his presence, as if for a moment he were someone else, someone much _older_. “But he won’t know it’s me he’s looking for.” 

That had to be the single weirdest thing he’d said all night, in Stephanie’s humble opinion. It didn’t even make any sense. But, she notes, it’s not like there’s ever been a lot about this Robin that makes sense and he doesn’t seem to be particularly keen on explaining himself anytime soon, even if he had promised he’d explain later. 

Later is, evidently, not any time in the foreseeable future. 

“Is this a secret identity thing?” Stephanie asks. 

Robin cocks his head to the side, as if considering, and then smiles, clearly amused. “It’s close enough.” 

“So, does this mean you have to erase my mind or something – you know, since I’ve seen your face and all,” she wonders aloud. 

He leaps down, his feet making a heavy whump in the snow. “Nah. I don’t even have a secret identity anymore.” 

Stephanie narrows her eyes in confusion. 

“Well, I _did_ , but,” he pauses, gesturing to his face, and adds, “As you can see, I’m different now.” 

She just stares at him for a moment: “You are _so_ weird.” 

“Weird is subjective,” Robin says, leading them down a side street that spills into another part of town. 

It looks familiar, ugly and threatening even under a layer of fresh snow, and all of a sudden she knows _exactly_ where they are. Stephanie shudders and resists the urge to grab him and pull him back. This part of town is even worse than where she lives and she lives in a pretty bad part of town. 

“It’s ok,” Robin says, looking at her with those green, _green_ eyes. “I can manage on my own from here.” 

Stephanie wants to turn around and go, but her feet refuse to move. What kind of person would she be if she just left him here? 

“He comes here a lot,” Robin comments distantly, as if trying to explain without telling her anything important. “It’ll be easier to find him and get his attention here.” 

It’s _March_ and its _freezing_ and he wants her to leave him alone in Crime Alley to look for _Batman_. 

“You are so _stupid_ ,” she hisses, jabbing a mitten-covered finger at his chest. “You’re going to get yourself killed!” 

At that, Robin smiles and there’s something very sad and strange about it. For a moment, she almost thinks he pities her a little. Then, it’s gone, and so is he, gracefully moving with a silence and speed that are honestly a little bit terrifying. 

“Wait!” she calls out, running after him, but he is so much faster. She is struggling to keep him in sight and the snow is falling faster and faster. Her fingers and toes are numb with cold and then he’s gone completely, melted into the wash of white. 

Stephanie’s boot catches the ice below the snow and she slips, plunging headfirst. 

She never hits. 

Robin is there, smiling down at her with that strange smile. The snow sticks to his hair and the oversized sweater in slashes of white as he pulls her back to her feet. “Come on,” he says, conspiratorially. “I need a hand.” 

Stephanie doesn’t know what he’s up to and isn’t sure she wants to be part of it, but she lets him lead her down another side street and nearly freezes when she sees what he’s found. 

It’s the Batmobile. 

It squats in the alley, dark and sleek as black ice under the cover of snow, and equally as dangerous. It also looks rather unoccupied. Stephanie’s eyes automatically go to the rooftops in search of its owner, but she sees nothing and the snow clings heavily to her eyelashes. 

“I don’t have the keys,” Robin says and pulls something from under his sweater. It looks an awful lot like her dad’s tire iron and the expression on his face only confirms her suspicion. 

“What are you going to do?” she asks. 

Robin grins and this time, it is pure mischief. “Why, _something bad_ , of course.” 

Stephanie sighs and resigns herself to her fate. 

Batman is probably going to kill them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Stephanie.


	15. Safety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stephanie and Robin wait for Batman. It's like something from a dream.

_Gotham_ _March 18th_ _2:32 AM_

Stephanie fights the urge to yawn and rubs her hands together, blowing on them a little for warmth. Nearby, the Batmobile’s tires are neatly propped against a wall that clearly had seen better days. She can see Robin’s profile against the dim light from the window. He’s looking out, frowning as he searches the darkness.

“You don’t have to wait with me, you know,” Robin says, his voice cutting through the silence with sudden, jarring loudness.

Stephanie starts, nearly jumping out of her skin, and then, shivering, she curls back into a ball on the decrepit sofa she’d found. “Sure I do,” she mumbles. “I can’t let you stay here alone.”

“Your dad is probably worried about you,” Robin says softly, turning to look at her. In the poor light, she can only make out the barest lines of his cheek, but he just sounds so _sad_.

Stephanie gulps a little, curling tighter into a ball, and rests her head on her hands, deliberately avoiding his gaze. How can she possibly explain the truth to Robin? Yes, her dad _might_ be worried, but he might also be preoccupied with his work or his job hunts or locked up for violating parole or any number of things. He could get so caught up in it all sometimes that he forgot all about her.

“I know who he is, Stephanie,” Robin states. “I’m a detective, remember?”

In that instant, she feels the blood in her veins run cold and she can feel her heart thudding in her chest even as her lips start to quiver. Tears prickle at the corner of her eyes, burning hot against the bitter cold and reducing him to a blob of darkness against the window pane.

He turns away, looking back outside. For a moment, he’s silent and then: “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna tell.”

She sniffs, rubbing hard at her eyes. They still feel hot.

“Hey, Steph,” Robin pipes up. “When this is all over, do you think we can still be friends?”

Sniffing again, Stephanie rubs the last of the tears from her eyes and, blinking, she responds instinctively with “You’re stupid.”

Because he _is_ : he’s stupid and weird and _Robin_ , but he’s nothing like the Robin of her dad’s stories at all. He’s something _else_ altogether, something special.

A shadow suddenly falls over the room and a voice, low and grave, follows. “I believe you kids have something of mine.”

It takes every ounce of her willpower – along with clamping both of her hands firmly over her mouth - not to scream in sheer terror.

Robin, however, looks absolutely delighted.

“I knew you’d come,” he says, cheerfully hopping down from the windowsill. “I didn’t think it would take this long, though. Did the sensors malfunction?”

Batman did not answer. Instead, he stood in stony silence and, unbidden, Robin’s earlier words returned to her.

_He’ll be looking for me. But he won’t know it’s me he’s looking for._

“Robin,” she whispers, horrified, into her fingers. The borrowed sweater is covering most of his suit. He looks like just another poor neighborhood kid in hand-me-down clothes.

“Two hearts,” Robin states. He raises his eyebrows, jutting his chin forward defiantly. Never once do his eyes leave Batman’s face.

After a moment, the Batman responds: “You were dead.”

“For a minute there, B,” Robin admits with a shrug. He then frowns, tugging at his borrowed sweater. “I’m gonna need a new ID. And a new suit. This one’s toast.”

Batman does not say anything. He doesn’t even move and yet, somehow, Stephanie feels like his attention has now turned to her. She gulps and tries to make herself as small as possible.

“Don’t be rude, B,” Robin states, “She’s a friend – pulled me out of the harbor, actually.”

Batman’s focus feels like it is gliding away, shifting back onto Robin, and Stephanie feels like she can breathe again.

“She’s seen your face,” he says, his tone grave.

“This face,” Robin counters, “After _it_ happened. Not _his_.”

But Batman’s stony expression never changes.

“I want to go home,” Stephanie whispers to herself. Then, louder, she repeats the words: “I want to go home. _Robin, I want to go home!_ ”

Her hands latch onto his sleeve even before she’s aware she’s grabbed for him. His eyes, wide and green, stare at her and then they soften in comprehension. His free hand closes over one of hers.

“Sure, Steph,” he says, smiling. “I’ll make sure you get home safe.”

The world slides and _tilts_ into darkness.

* * *

 

_11:28 AM_

It is bright and someone is cooking bacon and eggs.

Stephanie blinks wearily, slowly sitting up in bed. For a few moments, she sits there in silence and stares at the window, unable to determine if she is really awake or still dreaming.

Fresh snow lines the windowsill. Outside, snowflakes are still lazily falling.

It had been snowing in her dream, she’s sure of it.

There’s a knock on her door and, not a moment later, her father pokes his head in.

“Hey, kiddo, breakfast is ready.”

She blinks, the words sinking in, and slowly begins the process of untangling herself from her blanket. Halfway through, she decides it’s too cold to leave behind and instead hauls it over her shoulders, wrapping herself up as tightly as she can before attempting to make the shuffle to the next room. She glowers sleepily at the chair, unwilling to sacrifice a moment of warmth but understanding the necessity of having her hands free to eat. Her stomach growls loudly and she makes her choice: a few seconds of chill in order to wrap the blanket over her chair and around her shoulders.

Her father smiles at her and turns back to their tiny stove. It isn’t long before he turns back, placing a plate in front of her, and then he too slides into his chair with his plate in hand.

Stephanie glares at her plate, her eyebrows furrowing in concentration.

“Stephanie, are you okay?” her father asks.

“I had a weird dream,” she replies, frowning. “I think it was about Batman.”

Her father _freezes_ in place, his fork hovering above his eggs. The hand holding it shakes ever so slightly.

Even as she tries to cling to the foggy remnants of the dream, it slips through her thoughts like sand through her fingers. She remembers wanting to go home and something about Robin. “I think he thought I took or _saw_ something I wasn’t supposed to. I was scared. I thought he was gonna take me to Blackgate and I was never gonna get back home.”

Her father drops his fork and stands abruptly. Circling around the table, he kneels and enfolds her in the tightest hug he’s ever given her. “I’m sorry, baby girl, I’m so sorry.”

Stephanie both does and does not understand why he’s apologizing, but for one moment she feels like she is the most important thing in her father’s life, even more than being Cluemaster, and that is more than enough. So, she hugs him back as tight as she can, sniffing back tears she didn’t know she had, and there they stay, letting breakfast go cold.

“Things are going to be different,” her father promises, wiping tears from his eyes with a thumb as he stands. There’s a real, fierce determination in his voice.

Stephanie, privately, wishes that this time he means it.

A tinny cellphone ringtone interrupts the silence. Sighing, her father goes to collect it and scowls a little, mouthing _parole_ as he swipes his thumb across the screen. “Hey, there, Joe, how are you? Yeah, yeah, fine. Just having a late breakfast with my daughter.”

He pauses, his face contorting oddly. “What? Well, no, that’s great but… are you serious? The Wayne program? I thought you said there weren’t any open slots left!”

Again there’s a pause and her father looks like he’s about to cry or collapse or both.

“No, no, of course I’m interested, Joe,” he replies, gripping the chair like a lifeline. “It’s just – you have no idea what this means to me and my family, Joe. Thank you, thank you, _thank you!_ ”

He talks for another few minutes and when he hangs up, there are tears in his eyes but he is smiling. He swoops in for a hug and practically hauls her to her feet with a triumphant laugh that she can’t help but echo.

“It’s gonna be different from here on out,” he promises. “Everything’s gonna be different.”

This time, Stephanie believes him.


	16. Recognized

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team waits and worries.

_Mount Justice_

_March 18 th _

_4:16 PM_

M’gann can’t sit still. And, if they’re being honest, no one really has since she’d woken up from that nightmare the day before and made that chilling announcement.

 _Something is wrong,_ she’d said, _Robin is in trouble._

“Are you _sure_?” Wally asks for what feels like the millionth time. Behind him, Garth and Tula watch the exchange patiently, while Zatanna silently frowns.

Connor closes his eyes, leaning back into his chair. “Rob’s coms went down sometime around the same time.”

Kaldur shakes his head slowly. “That means nothing. He’s gone off coms before without telling us.”

Wally resists the urge to squirm in anxiety as Connor states what they’re all thinking: “Not like this, he hasn’t.”

Tense silence settles over the room.

“We could call Batgirl,” Rocket suggests.

“Yes, _thank you_ ,” Wally says, throwing up his hands. “First sensible thing anyone’s said all day!”

Artemis sighs heavily, pulling herself up from her seat. “Guys, before we go bothering her, let’s give it a little more time. Knowing Gotham, he’s probably doing a sewer crawl.”

“He isn’t,” M’gann insists, shaking her head. Her hands ball into fists, her fingers clenching her skirt hard. “I _felt_ him scream.”

Connor watches her, reading her posture, and draws his lips in a thin line: she’s much more shaken by this than anyone realizes. But, then, the nature of her connection to Robin has become more nuanced than theirs in many ways. He may be her boyfriend, but as far as she is concerned, Robin is her _family_ and capable of commanding just as much of her attention.

 _“Psychic lifeforms like Robin and I… how to put it?”_ she’d explained once, not that long after Robin had changed. _“We thrive on the presence of [whole-community-self/family-sibling-unit-bond]. We need [other-family-self-totality]. It’s so lonely and quiet without it. It’s like when you first left Cadmus and could no longer feel the presence of the G-Gnomes inside your head, but worse because there’s no one around you who can [passive project-presence/self] back to you. You have to constantly [probe-search-feel] for everybody.  Trained grown-ups, like my uncle, can manage okay, but we’re still young, Conner, and it’s hard. Even with linking and sharing like we were doing, it’s been only temporarily filling the hole. But now… I feel different, better, because I’m not constantly reaching. It’s the same for him now. Do you understand?”_

At the time, he had been utterly confounded because she switched so fast between explaining in spoken words and telepathic _meaning-feeling_ that he’d nearly gotten psychic whiplash from the effect. It took time to realize what she’d been trying so hard to say: Martians need more than just fleeting link-ups and psychic sharing to survive psychologically. They needed something to anchor them that the team, having no other psychics, could not provide. When Robin had changed, he became that anchor.

And not a moment too soon, Connor admits privately.

Before, M’gann had been slipping. He’d seen it – they _all_ had – and just didn’t want to admit it. It was the proverbial elephant in the room and no one wanted to deal with it.

Now, it seems to have become something of a moot point anyway.

Connor glances balefully at the cave computer. Batgirl’s coms aren’t more than a button click away. Calling her would be the logical thing to do.

Then, he hears it: the sound of the Zeta Tube circuits switching on. He turns his head a half second before the portal begins to open and watches, waiting.

 _“Recognized: B-01 Robin, 02 Batman_ , _”_ the computer announces.

For a moment, no one moves as the two figures come through. Batman is the same as ever, an impassive and imposing human figure in black and gray. Next to him is an unfamiliar young boy in an oversized red sweater and worn-out old jeans, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. The boy’s dark hair is a curly mess, despite an obvious attempt to comb it.

In his ears, Connor can hear the familiar double-beat he’s come to identify as Robin’s, but the completely unfamiliar face throws him for a loop. What on earth? Could Robin shape shift like M’gann did?

“Rob!” M’gann shouts, pushing past him as she races forward. She throws her arms wide and scoops him into a fierce hug that the boy eagerly returns. “Oh, you had me so worried! I heard you screaming!”

Wally’s flat _what_ goes unheeded and Connor can practically hear Kaldur’s eyebrows rocketing up in surprise. He _definitely_ hears Zatanna drop like a stone into her seat.

“It’s really you, isn’t it?” Connor asks, after a moment. He points, indicating the face. “Is this a new… Time Lord _thing?_ ”

“Yep!” the boy, _Robin_ , replies cheerfully as he pulls away from M’gann. “I regenerated. Wicked, right?”

Artemis stares. “You… kinda shrunk there, short stuff.”

“ _Shrunk?_ Artemis, he looks like he’s _twelve!_ ” Wally manages, gesturing wildly.

“Thirteen, actually,” Robin corrects him, gently. “Losing a few years here and there isn’t that bad for a first regeneration.”

“Yeah, but, _Rob_ , what about your secret identity?” Wally demands, wheeling around to look at him. It’s obvious what this is really about from the look on Wally’s face and the way M’gann freezes, her hand automatically resting protectively on Robin’s shoulder. Wally’s known Robin the longest and, for a long time, was the only person on the whole team who knew that Robin was Dick Grayson. They’ve been friends for ages, even in their civilian identities.

It’s Batman, long since forgotten in the confusion, who answers. “It’s been taken care of. From now on, Robin will have a new secret identity.”

Wally’s face drains of color and he steps back. “But…”

“Two-Face killed the old me, Wally,” Robin admits quietly. “That me can’t come back. He’s still in here, in my head, but physically he’s _gone_. That’s what regeneration is, it’s what it does.”

Wally shakes his head in denial. “You can’t just – what – I don’t understand! How the hell are you supposed to make someone like – _like that_ just disappear?”

Robin bows his head and then, slowly raises it, turning to M’gann.

M’gann cocks her head to the side, as if listening. She shifts, black racing up her changing legs and red splashing across her broadening torso as a cape lined in yellow begins to slide down from her shoulders. In the blink of an eye, she is gone and Robin, as he was just days ago, stands there before them.

For a moment, there is silence and then Wally is gone, the door on the other side of the room slamming shut in his wake. Rocket’s hand hovers over her mouth in silent horror. Nearby, Garth and Tula have gone utterly still, stunned completely speechless. Robin bows his head, his expression stormy as M’gann reverts to her preferred shape.

“I’ll talk to him,” Artemis says, closing her eyes and turning to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this regeneration is a little younger - maybe by two to three years.


End file.
